


the many stars that guide us

by Hymn



Series: i found my star, lost the moon (that star is you) [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Derek, Fisting, M/M, Rough Sex, STILES HAS THIS SHIT LOCKED DOWN, Trust, Uhm, biting with a little blood, derek has feels, derek has soft and squishy feels mid-sex, full moon sex, half-shifted sex, kind of simulated knotting, smooshy feelings, taming the wild beast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:17:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hymn/pseuds/Hymn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek growls: “Now how about you show me what you have planned. You might want to make it quick, I don’t have very much patience right now. So tell me, little human. How do you intend to <i>handle</i> this?" and drags a palm in a lewd, ragged line down his torso.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the many stars that guide us

**Author's Note:**

> I have read over this too many times to know if it is sexy or not, so here's hoping, my friends! Alternate title: taming the wild beast! Or, the working title: conception. Which! If you've been following the story, YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, GUYS. I got flustered considering how a male werewolf might get knocked up, and couldn't get any work done until I wrote it. Full moon magic and simulated fisting, guys, the boys have no idea what's happening, I didn't even throw in an impregnation kink, so if you want to read this story as just sex, instead of mpreg, you can, I didn't even include it in the tags because it is, you know, CONCEPTION TIME, and has little impact unless you read it that way for what happens latter. It's great guys, no really. If you think I should add mpreg to the tag for this one, though, let me know.

Derek is washing dishes, and Stiles is supposed to be drying them, but for Stiles that means he gives a half-hearted pass with a dish towel and then clatters them into the drying rack with an impish blink at Derek’s frown. Now Stiles is perched on the counter behind him, Derek having finally given it up for a lost cause and growling until Stiles, laughing, literally threw in the towel and left it for Derek to finish up. It takes Derek a moment to realize it when Stiles goes quiet, because he wasn’t really listening to what Stiles was saying, so much as letting the sound of it blend with the water from the faucet into an easy peace he was still learning to enjoy. 

“Stiles?” he asks, looking at him over his shoulder in concern, because Stiles being quiet always makes him nervous. Some terrifying things happen on account of Stiles’ being quiet. He‘s looking at Derek‘s wall-calendar. “You know,” Stiles says, tone thoughtful. “I’ve never fucked you on the full moon before.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and shrugs, resumes dish washing. Says, “I’ve never wanted you to.”

He listens to Stiles hop off the counter, tracks him the two feet distance between them, and feels him tuck himself, all warmth and flannel shirts and big hands sliding around his waist, against Derek’s back as he ducks his chin down against Derek’s shoulder. He says, “But I think I want to. At least once.”

Derek thinks about this: having control means needing control: aggression, dominance, instincts, danger. During the full moon, when the safest thing is to stay _in_ control, Derek always wants to fuck Stiles. The moon gets into his head and his blood and his heart beats fast in a way he can’t slow down and Stiles’ pulse fills his ears, his scent his nose. He could take Stiles apart, then, can’t get enough of his voice crying out and his mouth biting desperately at Derek’s jaw, his legs locked tight around his waist.

The next full moon is in a week and a half, and Derek says, “It might not be a good idea.”

“I think I can handle you,” Stiles says, presses his smirk against Derek’s neck, nuzzles until Derek tilts his neck with a little sigh and lets Stiles give a soft, sweet press of teeth there. “Just think about it,” he says. “If you don’t want to, we won’t. It’s cool.”

Then Stiles drags his fingers to Derek’s waist, unbuckles his belt with slow, sure hands, and sucks a hickey up high, right below Derek’s ear. He fucks Derek so hard there, in the kitchen, Derek’s hands slipping against the slick edge of the sink, that all of the plates in the drying rack rattle, and one of Derek’s glasses falls to the linoleum and shatters and Derek doesn’t even hear it. 

*

Derek fucks Stiles that full moon, and the next, but five months into their relationship and Derek’s been thinking about it too much. About what _if_ Stiles can handle it. Derek’s stronger, physically, in all ways, and the moon rides his blood like a hot knife, sometimes, until he feels like thin skin wrapped over sharp power, and he’s never really thought about what it would feel like to submit, or to let go, or be done to, feeling like that. He can’t really imagine it, doesn’t necessarily want to. 

Except. 

_I think I can handle you._

Derek wants to know what that means, what Stiles thinks he can do, how Stiles thinks he can _handle_ Derek.

“We can try it,” Derek says gruffly a few days before the next moon. They’re eating meatball subs and watching The Lady and the Tramp because Stiles thought it’d be funny. (It is.) Though Stiles hasn’t said anything since the first time, when he asked Derek to think about it, he knows exactly what Derek is talking about. He looks at Derek all wet and besotted and heated, and Derek blushes and snaps, “Watch the movie before I change my mind. And I can’t promise you anything. I might not let you. I don’t know. Okay? It might not work.”

Stiles murmurs, “It’ll be fine, don’t worry,” in the offhand way Derek knows means he has some kind of plan. Derek tries not to worry. 

*

Stiles is already standing naked and holding the bottle of lube when Derek comes in.

“Okay, for this to work I need you to wolf out."

“You can’t actually be serious," Derek bites out. The moon is high, full and yellow in the sky, and Derek learned how to control his wolf a lifetime ago, how to keep all the snarls inside, how to keep his teeth in; has perfected the art of human hands and human eyes, no matter how fast his blood rushes. Stiles grins at him, brow furrowed, eyes dark and teeth bared and he’s doing that thing where he slips from human to something more-than-human, something dangerous that runs with wolves, magic made of stubborn defiance and furious will, and Derek reacts like Stiles knew he would.

Around fangs, Derek hisses, “That wasn’t fair."

“I’m a lot of things," Stiles says, “and one of those is really good at playing dirty and getting what I want. Trust me, okay? Do you trust me?"

“Stiles."

Stiles snaps a hand down, impatient, then rocks back on his heels and breathes in deep through his nose and relaxes his shoulders. Tries again, quieter this time, “It’s important Derek. I need you to remember that you trust me before we try this."

Derek undresses, trying not to slice open his clothes, his blood pounding and vision skewed, and moonlight flooding the room through the one tiny window in Derek’s bedroom. When he’s naked, he kicks his clothes to the side, stands in front of the bed, and puts his arms out at his side, a little cocky, a bit of a shit, muscles bulging and eyes shining and lips curled into a smirk-sneer around a mouthful of fangs, but Derek says, “I trust you, Stiles."

Stiles grins a wolf’s smile, and Derek growls: “Now how about you show me what you have planned. You might want to make it quick, I don’t have very much patience right now. So tell me, little human. How do you intend to _handle_ this?" and drags a palm in a lewd, ragged line down his torso, fists his dick, already hard and eager, waiting, waiting, on the edge of taking.

Stiles does it very simply. Derek is surging in his skin, his eyes feel hot and his muscles ache, and he has too much energy, and Stiles is a cool presence, a still point, heart steady and hands calm and eyes dangerously sure. He says, “I’m not afraid of you.”

Derek snarls at him, to say that Stiles should be.

And Stiles walks up to him, right into his space, up into his face, presses his hand against Derek’s mouth, his tender, delicate flesh against Derek’s teeth without stopping, and Derek is staggering back, pulling back and tripping over his feet suddenly, trying not to let Stiles cut himself on Derek’s fangs. What is Stiles _doing_?

Derek falls on the bed, on his back, and there is Stiles, shoving his knees between Derek’s thighs and Derek automatically spreads them to make it easier, panting, arching his jaw and his neck to get Stiles’ hand away from his fangs - he can’t grab at Stiles because he might hurt Stiles right now, claws and strength and the full moon - and before he knows it Stiles says, soft and tender and vicious, like moonlight, “You would never, ever hurt me.” and bites down on Derek’s throat, which Derek has bared without thought, without realizing, and the shock hits him hard and fast and hot in the gut, like a tidal wave, life fire, and he groans.

Stiles laugh is low, wicked and mean, his golden eyes snapping with sparks, and Derek vibrates beneath him, shreds the sheets luxuriously and manages a closed, hard smile against Stiles’ palm. Fuck, Derek thinks. Fuck, this might work. Suicidally brilliant mother _fucker_.

Stiles keeps his teeth on Derek, snapping and biting, digging in and breaking skin which heals but leaves the sticky texture of blood behind so that Derek doesn’t forget. Stiles is painting him red and purple-bruised, opening him up beneath him. Derek snarls, thrashes, goes still as a ghost when Stiles’ slips his thumb beneath Derek’s lip, slides it against a fang there, _fuck_ , dangerous. Derek trembles beneath his skin feeling hunted and devoured, Stiles slipping a finger inside his hole, past his clenched rim. Dry because he hasn’t time for lube, and he works him open until Derek’s so busy shaking from the raw beautiful agony Stiles can move the hand from against his fang, grab the lube from where he dropped it on the bed with his other hand and drip slick down onto his hand, coat his other fingers and shove two more in without warning, so that Derek cries out, bites his tongue on his teeth, and snarls with it.

It’s strange, almost frightening - the urge to take is still there, aggression beneath his skin, behind the red of his eyes, but it’s thrown off track by pleasure, by his body recognizing what it likes, by Stiles’ hands and tongue and teeth and skin, giving and giving and giving, relentless. Stiles sucks his dick all slurp and suction, and when Derek throws an arm back in abandon, bucking down onto Stiles’ clever fingers, up into his clever mouth, Stiles pulls back all together in a dizzying instant. Derek reels, with loss of sensation, and Stiles flips him, muscles straining, onto all fours before Derek can figure out how to react. Grabs Derek by the hips just as he’s beginning to growl, drags him back so his feet dangle off the bed, and puts teeth and tongue to ass, nails digging into thighs, knocking them wide so that Derek is exposed, open.

Derek whines, high in his throat.

It’s good, so good, rough and fast and never long enough for Derek to get used to before Stiles switches it up again. But even still, the moon riding him high with power, Derek almost can’t do it, almost twists around from where Stiles has him on his hands and knees on the bed, fingers in his ass, almost pulls away and puts Stiles here, in his place, because Derek _wants_ , he _needs_ , and this isn’t enough, he wants _more_. But Stiles moves as though he can feel the agitation, the unrest itching up beneath Derek’s skin, and he has his arm hooked around Derek’s neck, under his jaw before Derek can act, tightens just enough and pulls Derek’s head back, so his back is arched and a little painful, so Derek is held and trapped and choking just a little, claw-tipped hands grappling at the bed sheets he suddenly can’t reach. His weight presses against the crook of Stiles’ arm in a way that makes everything go still and white-hazed and glorious. Then Stiles’ dick is at Derek’s hole, heat and thickness and slick, and he’s pressing in, fast, exactly what Derek needs, and then he braces his feet on the floor, and uses his arm around Derek’s throat and a hand across Derek’s mouth to make Derek move, to make Derek do the work, to fuck himself open and raw and hungry on Stiles’ dick.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, heaving for breath, struck dumb and blind and full, amazed and hungry, taking and being taken. Fuck, fuck _yes_.

If he moves suddenly, coiled tight with heat and pleasure, he might bite off one of Stiles’ fingers. All there is, all he has, is to go pliant, limp and trusting. To move how he’s asked, to accept what’s being given, and everything is hotter for that, hotter and better and more brilliant, until Derek feels scorched with it, drowned and ruined. At one point Stiles takes his arm from around Derek’s throat and it’s only Stiles’ hand, the faintest pressure against Derek’s lips, and that’s all Stiles needs to do this, just the broad palm of his hand, to contain Derek, to _handle_ him, to destroy all of Derek’s power and danger and use it how he wants. Derek can’t stop a sob, wretched and tangled in his chest, shaking and shaking, and he keeps fucking himself on Stiles’ cock, rocking forward, slamming back, loving the hot hard length, the way it fills him and leaves him empty. 

Stiles soothes him while he sobs for breath, rutting onto Stiles in desperate, short jerks against his prostate. Hands caress his hair and his shoulder, tap lightly at the hollow of his neck, slide soft against his collar bones, and all Derek can do is murmur, “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” any more, throat tight, desperate for this, and Stiles bears him down into the sheets and the pillows and holds onto him, his warmth and weight bracketing Derek in and his teeth gentle against Derek’s throat, right at the jugular, and Derek comes, sobbing. Stiles shushes him, leans his weight down until Derek’s face is pressed against the mattress while he gasps for breath, and keeps fucking him, long smooth thrusts hitting his prostate again and again until Derek is writhing, desperate, getting fucked straight from orgasm into another one. He whimpers, his mind is gone, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he comes if he doesn’t come, he can’t understand anything except the scent of Stiles and the weight of him and his cock in his ass and Derek letting go with the moon full in the sky and just giving it up, letting Stiles have it all, give everything back to him, make him come again, and again.  
*

Stiles pulls Derek up, into his arms, soothes his hair back and worries the skin beneath Derek’s jaw with his teeth, soothing it with soft strokes of his tongue. Derek breathes in deep, but he can’t stop shaking. He looks at his hands, and they’re blunted now, human again, his teeth have lost their point, and the moon is a cool silver presence in his blood now, not angry but sweet, beckoning. Stiles says, “You okay?”

It’s all he can do to give a faint noise, some kind of assent as he blinks heavy and dazed, runs his palms over his body like its some new thing to him - he feels changed, different, at peace and loved. His eyes are hot, his face flushed, but he can’t be embarrassed, he’s forgotten how, had it fucked out of him, probably, or whispered away by Stiles’ voice, saying things so tender they’d made his heart crack open. There’s something he still wants. What is it? he wonders, but he can’t really think, he’s too exhausted and wrung out and overwhelmed for that, his mind a buzzing white blur in the aftermath of sensation. He stops thinking, just does what he wants instead, rides out an instinct, desire, not second-guessing in the way he’d taught himself after fire and loss years ago.

“C’mere,” he slurs, pulling and tugging at Stiles, drawing him to the edge of the bed where Derek can slide down, kneel on the floor between Stiles’ knees, and lick him clean, clean off all the semen, both his and Stiles, and the strawberry-kiwi lube Stiles’ insists on, with tongue and lips and reverence. Stiles’ breath hitches. His hands stroke Derek’s hair, pet him and trace the contours of him, his neck and shoulders, make love through his fingertips to Derek’s skin. Stiles only came the once, the second time Derek came, and after that he’d gotten Derek off with mouth and fingers and his voice in his ear, soft tender touches at the end when it had started off so rough. His cock twitches now, and Derek takes him in, sucks him down to feel him grow inside his mouth, heavy and hot on his tongue. Stiles groans, arching over him, arms wrapped around Derek as if embracing.

Derek has a clear thought, soft and quiet, and he closes his eyes to savor it: _I’m in love with you._

“Hey,” Stiles says, voice rough. He taps a finger at Derek’s jaw, gets his attention, and Derek slides off of him with a discontent sigh that has Stiles chuckling, grinning with flushed face and dark eyes. “What do you want, Derek? Let me give it to you. You were so amazing tonight, I want to give you anything. Everything. All of the everything.” He kisses Derek’s cheek, and Derek chases his mouth with his own. 

Derek says, “Make love to me.” and feels his heart squeeze tight with fear and desire.

“I always do,” Stiles promises, grasping Derek’s hands, drawing him up, onto the bed, pressing kisses like gifts over every inch of Derek’s skin he can find. Derek slides against him, rubs up, spreads his hands all over Stiles and holds onto him, his heart broken and flooding, at ease and all tangled up, and he can’t think again, doesn’t mind that he can’t think, trusts Stiles here, like this, trusts him with more than he thought he could, and Derek just moves, letting his body ask for what it wants. 

“Stay in me at the end,” Derek whispers, voice rough, “Just- for a little while.”

His body is laid out, torso down on the bed, arms curved around his head, and he slides his knees under him, raises his ass up, spreads his thighs wide, wide. Stiles hisses a breath, and Derek can hear the hunger in it, and smiles against his wrist, pushes his ass up higher, wanton, wanting. 

“God, Derek,” Stiles says, stroking his thumb against an ass cheek, circling a finger into his hole, inside against the rim. “I don’t need to prep you again. You are just. Beautiful, so fucking beautiful, so messy and perfect, baby.”

Derek rumbles and whines, mewls when Stiles grabs his hips, and slides inside, like a perfect fit, heat and pressure and pleasure, strokes into him in easy motions that brush and light up Derek’s prostate. Derek isn’t sure he can come again, doesn’t know if he has the energy to get more than half hard, but he wants this. This, here, where at his most powerful and most dangerous he’s been taken and _cherished_ , broken into gentleness, nothing matters, not pride or anger or strength, just Stiles moving inside of him, and Derek letting go.

Derek moans when Stiles comes, feels his semen pulse inside, clenches tight around Stiles’ cock as he fills him up, slicks him with come, and holds him there. “God, yes,” Derek murmurs, delirious and floating, lit up and trembling, the hot length of Stiles softening just a little, sliding inside him and holding him open, pressed deep so that Derek is full, full of cock and come. “Yes, yes,” Derek says, “ _yes_.”

Because Stiles surprises him every time, because Stiles is more than anything Derek could dream, because Stiles always gives him everything even when Derek thinks he has it all, he leans back so he can slide his finger around Derek’s rim, where it’s stretched red and filthy around his cock. He’s still panting with exertion, with orgasm, but he slides his finger inside, pressed tight between the wall of Derek’s ass and his cock, and Derek cries out. “I got you,” Stiles murmurs, “let me- yeah, baby, give it up.”

Stiles slides another finger in, stretches him wider, and lost in sensation Derek almost misses Stiles’ sliding his cock out, replacing it with two more fingers, with his thumb. 

“Fuck,” Derek whines. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

“You can do it.” Stiles kisses the small of his back, slides his hand in the slick, presses against the fluttering muscles of Derek’s abused insides, stretches his hole too tight, works his fingers into a curve into a fist and Derek moans a long, broken noise that ends on a skittering cry, and then Stiles’s fist is inside of him, to the wrist, and Derek is sobbing into his arms and pushing back, just a little, short little bursts just to feel all that pressure, all that sweet-agony stretching him wider than he’s ever been. Stiles’ twists his wrist, flutters his fingers, Derek babbling words or maybe just sounds, he doesn’t know, there is nothing left of him except pleasure and the satisfaction of Stiles’ come inside of him and being so, so full that he can’t move more than an inch, utterly at Stiles’ mercy and _glad_ for it.

Stiles wraps his free arm around Derek’s hips, across his belly, holds him as close as he can, and lays his head on his back, and holds him there, holds him full with the moon shining in.

*

In the morning Derek hurts more than he ever thought it was possible for a werewolf to hurt after sex, and his face flushes in pleasure and embarrassment. He’s spooning Stiles, and he’s glad he can’t see his face, because he doesn’t know how to feel about last night, not yet, that was- that was a lot of nakedness. 

Stiles rubs his fingers against Derek’s wrist, where it’s draped over his belly. He twines their fingers together, easy and natural, and he murmurs, half-asleep but understanding, “We can talk about feelings when you’re ready, sourwolf. Full moon pass.”

Derek snorts against the nape of Stiles’ neck, and holds him tight.

**Author's Note:**

> It should be understood that a large reason why Derek is so concerned with biting, or scratching Stiles is that, as an alpha, he can turn a human to a werewolf. He would never, ever do that without Stiles' asking for it, and certainly never in the heat of the moment during sex. Stiles knows this, so the trust goes even further than not physically hurting him. And that's how Derek Hale becomes pregnant. Full moon magic and special werewolf biology reacting to a male alpha werewolf surrendering to being mounted and "knotted" without ejaculating and assuming he's trying to procreate. Yeah, that's all I've got.


End file.
